Favorite Color
by Rhealicet
Summary: What's your favorite color? And why? Oneshot told from Popuri's point of view. HM:MFOMT. May be expanded in the future. Please read and review!
1. Life

Hi, again! Rhealicet here! I seem to only be able to write in the middle of the night! Well, anyway, this is yet **ANOTHER **idea that came to me in the middle of the night, and so I typed it out. This is kind of…I dunno…Popuri-centric…I guess…it could be considered…darkish? But, not really. Actually I was thinking about doing more of these…favorite color things…so, if I get reviews saying I should add onto this, I will add another chapter on another character and their color. ) I guess…if you guys want you can suggest a person and color in your review...if you want. If no one supports the idea though, that's fine ) If they support it, but don't make up suggestions I'll add chapters with my own ideas ) Gah, I'm not making any sense am I? Blame my lack of sleep. Stupid holidays )

Review, review, review! –prods-

Disclaimer: I don't own Harvest Moon.

xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo

"What's your favorite color, Popuri?"

My head shoots up to look at the questioner. A fringe of blonde bangs hides the eyes which I know to be blue, thriving with life, happiness, and brimming with a confidence which sometimes can be mistaken for arrogance. I cock my head and look at Claire questioningly.

"My favorite…?"

"Color! Yeah, what's your favorite color?"

She grins at me expectantly. I pause, licking my lips in preparation for an answer. You'd think this would be an easy question but… no one has ever asked me what my favorite color was. They always assumed it was pink. Probably because of my hair.

"I-I dunno? Why?"

She looks disappointed, for some reason.

"Oh…I was just curious is all…ya know…your favorite color can determine the type of person you are on the inside…"

I smile at her. So that's why. Claire, always trying to get to know people. More than she should sometimes. Claire is a dear friend of mine, but she's the type of person who wants to know everything about everybody she encounters. And this, as you can imagine, can be more than a bit trying sometimes. Ever since Saibara blew up at her for asking questions about 'confidential matters', she's been a bit more subtle about her investigations into the townspeople's lives.

"Uh…I'll think about it and tell you tomorrow," She perks up. "It's…it's just…th-there are so many pretty colors to choose from!"

Oh, gag. Squeal! Pretty colors! Goddess, I sound like a high school bimbo, not a twenty-two year old.

Claire smiles, thanks me for having her at her house, and says she can't wait to hear my answer. We grin at each other, wave goodbye, and she leaves the Poultry Farm and me to my thoughts.

I sigh and go upstairs into the family room. Glancing at the clock, I sigh yet again. Seven o' clock. Mom and Rick are out at the clinic, to pick up some medicine and to pay the doctor. They probably won't be back until later. I sit down in front of the dresser and look into the mirror, taking out my headband. My cotton-candy colored hair flows into my eyes and I brush it back distractedly. I gaze at the girl looking back at me. I look seventeen, but in actuality, I'm an adult. I act like a child sometimes, but I'm an adult. I brush my hair, thinking idly about Claire's question. My favorite color…

I ponder the question, which apparently had hidden meaning in it, at least to Claire it did. This meant I had to be careful in answering it, because saying a color would probably mean more to her than just listing out all my individual character traits.

I carelessly toss aside the brush in thought and wince when I hear a crash. I shoot out of my chair and pivot, to see what I had broken.

A picture frame is lying face down on the ground. I sigh and pick it up, hoping it's not broken. I look at the picture, and a smile flits onto my face. My father, tall and strong, is hugging both me and Rick, as my mother smiles, sitting in a rocking chair in the background. I examine my fathers face, and find my brother's sandy colored hair framing a face that looks surprisingly like my own, his kind eyes are like mine, soft and red, framed by large wire-rimmed glasses.

I smile, and reach to put it back on the shelf, but stop, for the picture shifts a bit, revealing not the black of the back of the frame, but a white envelope. Curious, I open it up and pull the envelope out. It's addressed to my mother, and apparently isn't that old, for the date on it tells me it was sent last year. I open the broken seal, curiosity overwhelming my rationality, and the common sense that was calling out distantly in my mind to leave envelopes not addressed to you alone.

"_Lillia,_

_I have good news and bad news. Good news first…Rod…Rod found the flower. You can live. Bet you're pretty excited, huh? But, the bad news. I…I'm sorry. Goddess, I'm sorry. Rod's…Goddess writing it don't make it any easier does it? Rod's...dead."_

My fingers slip and the letter slides from my hand. I stare at it blankly as it flutters to the floor. And suddenly, I wish my father had never taught me to read.

Cruel. Cruel joke. Nasty and false. Lie! Lie, lie, lie, lie! It's not even tasteful.

And yet, as I tell myself this over and over again, part of me knows. It's not a joke. And perhaps this is the part of me that is making me cry. That makes me shudder and tremble in place as I clench my fists, whispering over and over again. _It's not true, it's not true, it's not true!_

And I know it's true. I know it's why mother has been so distant. I know it's why she's been going to the doctor so much lately. And I know why she didn't tell me.

xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo

Mom and Rick come home and go to bed. I give no hints. No sign I know the secret. Because I'm strong. I can bear any burden that my mother can. She couldn't tell us, and I know it's her way of protecting me and Rick. She doesn't want us to be so sad. She doesn't want us to cry, like she does now. And maybe it's not the way to handle it. But, it's the way we'll handle it.

I prick my finger and smile grimly as a dot of scarlet blood forms and trickles down my finger. Rick looks over and panics as usual, and I tell him it's ok. It'll stop bleeding. I don't need a band-aid. I have my answer for Claire.

**Red**. As the blood that runs through us. When we bleed it's a sign we're still alive and we can still go on. We haven't died, yet. We can still live strong.


	2. Pure

Here is the second installment to favorite color. It's been quite a while. Please rate and review! Thanks!

----

"Pure-hearted?" My eyes form a question at the sunny blonde across the counter from me.

"Yea! You're one of the most pure-hearted people I've ever met, Ann!" Her grin doesn't lie, she's being completely serious.

My face turns an interesting shade of scarlet, and I lean over, hoping my flaming hair would disguise it. I laugh embarrassedly and mutter, "What does that even mean?"

She giggles at my reaction, and says thoughtfully, "You…you're innocent, you know?"

I lift my head, one eyebrow rising with it. "Innocent? I'm not that innocent. I'm married, after all."

"What's that got to do with anything?" Does she seriously not understand?

"Think about it, Claire."

She looks at me curiously, and then laughs. "Your innocence is more than skin-deep."

There is a silence following her words, I don't even bother to dignify that with a comment. She smiles expectantly, and when it becomes clear I'm not about to break the silence anytime soon she gets up.

I watch her. "Leaving already?"

"Yea," she pulls her coat on, and suddenly snaps her fingers, turning to me abruptly.

I laugh at the enlightened look on her face, "What is it?"

She blinks, my laugh throwing her off a bit, "I remembered something I have to ask you!"

"Ok, shoot."

"What's your favorite color?"

I blink. Now, I'm the one who's thrown off. "Pardon?"

"Your favorite color! What is it?"

"**White**." The word seems to come of its own volition.

"White?" She stares at me thoughtfully.

I touch the ribbon in my hair of that particular color uncertainly, suddenly feeling shy under her appraising gaze. "Um, yes?"

She smiles. "Ok! Well, tell me why tomorrow!"

"…why?" I am somewhat dumbfounded. Claire isn't one to let things lie until tomorrow. Why isn't she grilling me for answers now? Not that I mind.

"Just think about it, okay? Well, I gotta go, bye, Ann!" And suddenly she is gone, leaving me to my thoughts.

Why had I said white? White. White isn't even a color really. The very opposite, in fact. White is nihilism, the absence of color.

White is clean. Untouched by all other colors, pure unfiltered light. Bland to some, but beautiful in its own right. White is purity. White is surrender. White is innocence. White is healing. White is death.

Why white? Why did it matter? It doesn't matter.

Then why had my voice been so sure when I said white?

I touch my ribbon absent-mindedly; it was given to me as a child by my mother. I never take it out, except to sleep and shower, of course. It's all I have left of her.

Well, that and my wedding dress.

I think back to my wedding.

White is the dress I wear.

White is the ribbon in my hair.

White is my face as my new husband roughly throws me to the bed.

He is too harsh. Too rough. Can't he be gentle? He was so gentle, so loving at the ceremony. Please! Please don't hurt me. You're scaring me. Stop! You're hurting me!

A scream pierces the air. Who was that? Was it me who screamed? Was it him? He's on the far side of the bed, groaning in pain, hand clamped over his broken nose.

My breath is labored. I look down at myself. My dress! My mother's wedding dress! Stained! An unsightly blotch of deep red glares back at me, seeping in, spreading like a plague on the snowy white fabric. Who's blood is that? Is it his? Is it mine?

Giant tears roll down like liquid flame, searing my cheeks. It's ruined. Through my blurred vision I stare at the stain, praying it will disappear, as it spreads further. Please, please, please, go away.

I shift and pause, breathless. My eyes pass over something. A discoloration. An imperfection. A stain, old and forgotten, washed so many times it was nearly invisible, but in the right lighting…

Yes, it was real. Old and faded to the faintest of browns, but there it was. Evidence. I was not the first, nor would I be the last.

He has been watching me. Guilt and sorrow squirm in him like worms. He crawls silently to me as I cry and holds me. Soft apologies are whispered into my hair. I shut my eyes.

I do what I can. I wash the stain with vigor. But it does not fully come out. It fades as I knew it would. An imperfection in an otherwise stainless dress. But somehow, it does not diminish its beauty. It is barely there, noticeable only if you take the time to look for it. And if you have taken the time to get so close to it, to see all its imperfections, by then it doesn't matter.


End file.
